


The Greatest Treasure

by stephanieh



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Character Study, Domestic Fluff, Durin Family Angst, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Established Relationship, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, Gold Sickness, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Married Couple, Minor Character Death, Politics, Post-Quest, Psychosomatic Illness, Violence, long winded book!thorin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-27
Updated: 2015-03-26
Packaged: 2018-02-27 04:28:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2679152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanieh/pseuds/stephanieh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erebor is once again a prospering kingdom and Bilbo is flourishing as royal consort. The kingdom, and its king, can withstand the arrival of a few mysterious strangers from the Far East.... right?</p><p>"I hope you live a life you’re proud of, and if you find that you’re not, I hope you have the strength to start all over again". (<a href="http://earlgreyhaught.tumblr.com/post/105797899315/for-what-its-worth-its-never-too-late-to-be">x</a>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Thorin woke to the call of his name. He was in a room that was far too bright. Hissing at the daylight assaulting his vision and the uncomfortable crick in his neck, he tried to sit up. He scowled at Bilbo, who chuckled at his plight from beside him. 

While Thorin struggled towards wakefulness, Bilbo looked searchingly at his face. "You've been overworking yourself again, my King," he chided. "Or maybe you are simply bored by my impassioned speeches on the finer points of gardening."

"No, no," Thorin groaned, yanking himself up from his slumped position and scrubbing his hands over his face roughly. "I am very interested in- in…"

He struggled for a moment before Bilbo took pity on him. "Soil fertilization, dear."

"Ah, yes. That."

Bilbo laughed that bright laugh. "Of course. But I'm afraid I'll have to regale you with the wonders of gardening at another time. It seems we have company," he gestured towards the door to indicate one of Erebor's guards clomping down the cobblestone path in their direction.

The dwarf guard was a strange contrast against background of the lively garden. He was all rich, dark cloth and gleaming armor where the garden was overflowing with colorful blooms. Beams of bright sunlight speckled the path from skylights. A warm, gentle breeze blew through the wide field of mismatched flowers and impacted the approaching dwarf much the same way it would impact a wall. Thorin wondered if he looked as out of place as the guard did, dressed as a king of dwarves and lounging on a wooden bench in his hobbit's sanctuary.

"My lord," the dwarf addressed his king, with a perfunctory nod in the consort's direction which Bilbo returned in an equally curt manner. "I was sent to report; There are some visitors arrived today from the Far East."

Thorin pulled himself out of his seat and stood, brushing his trousers flat with excessive force. The guard straightened to sharp attention, matching his king's return to courtly decorum. "The Far East?" he grumbled. "How far east?"

"Nobody has thought to inquire, your Majesty. Far enough to make it clear where they came from without asking. They are a bit… peculiar."

"Have they threatened the kingdom?"

"No, your Majesty. They've just been... looking."

"Looking," Thorin repeated.

"Yes, looking. At everything and everyone. Very… intimately."

"Hm," Thorin hummed. "Have they shown interest in an audience with me?"

"No," the guard hesitated. "But Captain Dwalin thought it best for you to be notified of their presence regardless."

"Very good," Thorin agreed. "Dismissed."

"Thank you, your Majesty." the guard replied. He turned to march his way back through the swaying field to the doorway from whence he entered.

Thorin sighed, sinking back to the bench beside Biblo, who took his husband's hand and rubbing a gentle thumb across his scarred knuckles. "Sounds like you're going to have a busy day," Bilbo observed. "Just try to find a few spare hours for yourself. Even if it's only listening to my lectures about soil," he finished, giggling as Thorin kissed the tip of his nose, gentle as the spring breeze.

"I adore your lectures," he grumbled. "Even the ones about soil. I lament the loss of so many minutes listening your sweet voice, which crafts the art of gardening into the highest of wonders. Alas, I have missed it, all for the dreary substitute of a black abyss! If only these mortal shells did not require such tedious maintenance," he cried, throwing his hands beseechingly towards the sky.

"Oh, no!" Bilbo cried through his laughter. "Once you start talking poetry, I know you're done for." He sobered, gripping Thorin's hand more tightly."You know, I bet the kingdom could manage itself for the rest of the day if you decided to extend your nap, my king- even if we do have... visitors."

"If only it were that simple." Thorin lamented as he rose, helping Bilbo to his feet in turn. "I may be out late tonight."

"What a surprise," Bilbo stated dryly.  

The two parted at the garden gates. Thorin turned to watched his husband as he walked down the hall. He was on his way to the library, presumably, to complete some work of his own. In his deep blue coat and muted green trousers, the Hobbit seemed to glow with life against the greyish background of Erebor's halls.

Bilbo must've felt Thorin watching- he nearly ran into a passerby trying to sneak a look over his shoulder back towards his where his husband was watching him. Thorin could hear his Bilbo's fluttering apology all the way down the hall.

He chuckled fondly as he moved down the path toward the Throne Room. Perhaps he might make it home earlier than expected, he reassured himself. Even if he didn't deserve a night off, Bilbo certainly deserved a night in.

***

Thorin suppressed a yawn as he watched the crowd milling about in the market below. Occasionally he picked out one of the visitors his guard had mentioned to him earlier that day. He began to muse over their characteristics, trying to guess their race. 

From where he was standing, he could see they were about the height and shape of your average Ereborian, but they were different in a way that was hard to place. They moved like animals, prowling from stall to stall or loitering in dark corners. They were built like a dwarf too, but thinner- more wiry. Thorin would guess they were surface dwelling, despite their dwarfish statures.

He frowned to himself, tugging on his braided beard. It was not uncommon for visitors from other lands to enter Erebor with interest in trade of goods or information, or simply to foster good relations with one of the most prosperous and famous dwarf kingdoms in Middle-Earth. What was concerning about these visitors was that they had arrived unannounced. They trickled gradually through the front gates in small groups over a long period of time, and once they were inside, spent their time lurking in dark corners and unnerving the locals. Thorin had checked in with the guard again, only to learned they had already received several complaints from concerned vendors who had believed the strangers were after their goods. No action had been taken, but it was becoming a tense situation in the buzzing marketplace.

Thorin found it concerning, but not concerning enough to act. These foreigners hadn't caused any harm so far, disturbing though they may be. The most anyone could complain about in their presence was a case of indignity, which is often unavoidable when two cultures collide. Maybe these visitors would do the dwarves of Erebor some good, he thought. Open their minds to new things, like his marriage to Bilbo had done for him.

Thorin suppressed an embarrassingly besotted grin. Yes, every dwarf could afford a little run-in with another race. In the end they might even discover themselves better for it. Even so, Thorin would be keeping an eye on these Easterners. They were a bit more suspicious than your average Hobbit.

He retired from his watch over the marketplace to attend the impending council session. He trusted these visitors would merely continue to "look" for a few hours while he got this business out of the way. And if they didn't, well- he was confident his guardsmen could handle a few savages from the Far East.

 ***

A few hours had well passed and he was still in council. Discussion had degraded to levels which had the King nodding off in his chair at the head of the table. Honestly, how long could an argument about the distribution of lamp oil last? The two old, grey dwarves creaked and crowed over who got more and when in their slow, groaning voices until it sounded like a lullaby to Thorin's ears.

Fortunately, he was rescued by Balin- who saw Thorin's slowly reclining posture and acted to keep him from embarrassing the crown by actually falling asleep in his chair.

"Thank you," Balin cut in, interrupting the head of the Mining Regulatory Council, who turned his rheumied eyes to Balin slowly, as though waking from a dream. "I'm sure we'll have another meeting to discuss this issue, but for now we have other matters on the agenda."

Thorin discreetly sat up straighter in his chair as heads began turning in his direction, trying valiantly to make it look as if he had never been slumping in the first place.

"On the subject of the Royal Consort's suggestion," Balin read off the agenda in a very official voice, "to establish a trade route between Erebor and the Shire, homeland to the Hobbits, who are skilled with the land and-"

"A ludicrous suggestion," the head of Trade interrupted promptly, sneering as he stuck his pointed noise in the air. "The cost of shipping goods over half the distance of Middle-Earth would far outweigh any benefit the trade route could offer."

"Well," the head of Agriculture replied. "The people of the Shire are well known for their farming abilities. Even shipments of their seeds and soils would have an impact in Erebor's interest-"

"Yes, in impact, indeed... but not enough impact to outweigh the costs," the head of Trade cut him off. "It's clear the only one to truly benefit from the route would be the people of the Shire themselves."

"If you're suggesting the Royal Consort is only seeking the betterment of his own people through a trade route, I suggest you take a moment to recall how the Royal Consort came to be in the position he is now," Balin cut into the conversation like a knife, quickly coming to Bilbo's defense before Thorin could form voice for his anger.

"Yes, Mister Balin," the head of Trade replied blithely, seemingly unconcerned over the Head Advisor's deadly tone. "I was merely pointing out that the Royal Consort has done nothing but better his own position and and interests within the kingdom since his marriage. He has used his wealth and position as a key advisor to assist other nearby kingdoms more than he has Erebor itself. And when he has seen fit to work in Erebor's favor, it has been in the most peculiar ways- such as the restoration of the library of all things."

Thorin shot up from his chair before he remembered he was in court, and there was etiquette for this sort of situation. Only he couldn't bring himself to care. "He is the Royal Consort of Erebor," Thorin began, voice straining with ire. "And he will not be accused of selfishness, so long as I am King. Not only did he abandon his home and his life to help us regain the kingdom in which you now couch yourselves in comfort; he nearly sacrificed his life for it.

"He came to Erebor for his own reasons, and though obscure at first, they were clearly noble in the end. Such have been his efforts as Consort. 

"Though you may not understand the need to restore the library," Thorin turned to the head of Trade, who looked rightly alarmed in the face of his kings fury, "or establish a trade route- though his reasons may be obscure- he is sure as rock not doing it for 'his own gain'. 

"A dwarf may have never prioritized the restoration of the library, but the Consort is not a dwarf. His actions benefit Erebor in ways we would never even think to consider on our own, even if shortsighted dwarves like you are too blind to see his value.

"As long as I'm alive," Thorin leaned over the table, looking down on the head of Trade, who was shrinking into his chair. "No one will accuse Bilbo Baggins of selfishness."

 

"That went well," Balin stated grimly as he and Thorin walked together down the low-lit halls towards their respective quarters, after the meeting was adjourned.

"He deserved it, that shirumundu rukhas," Thorin replied heatedly. "Disrespect towards any member of the royal family is not acceptable."

"Oh, I'm not doubting your motives," Balin replied. "It's your methods I'm worried about. Not to mention reminding you council of… hard times doesn't exactly encourage faith in your reign."

Thorin knew what he was getting at. A high temper and a loose tongue was how his grandfather had started as well. It only took a little to make even the least oily politician jump at the opportunity to doubt the sanity of their king.

Thorin clasped Balin's shoulder as they reached his quarters. "It won't happen again, my friend," he assured him, smiling fondly down at him.

Balin gave a put-upon sigh. "You're not the one who has to deal with the outcome of such outbursts, my King," he chided.

Thorin gave Balin a hearty slap on the back and smiled wider, wishing him a good-night as he wandered off down the hall to his own quarters.

As soon as the doors were shut behind him Thorin heaved a mighty sigh, removing his heavy crown and placing it on its stand on the mantle.

Shrugging out of his clothes, he dropped them on the floor in a trail until he was down to his thinnest layer of underwear. Crawling into bed, he slid under the heavy furs, trying in vain not to wake Bilbo as he curled around the Hobbit, breathing in his soft curls.

Bilbo mumbled a groggy, "Back already?" Thorin pinched his stomach lightly in retribution as the hobbit giggled at his own joke. "Did the council meeting go well? Anything interesting happen?"

Thorin, blowing out the candle Bilbo had left burning for him simply said, "Only a three hour long argument over lamp oil."

"Sounds horrible," Bilbo laughed, already falling back to sleep quickly in the warm embrace.


	2. Chapter 2

Thorin was in his office, hunched over his old oak desk which had once belonged to his grandfather, as he had been since midday. 

Now the sun had set, and the light was low in the mountain. He was busy scribbling signatures and orders and notes over what seems like an endless sea of paperwork. His mind kept drifting to his soft bed and his warm husband. He shook himself as the words blurred on the page. Just as few more forms and he would be done for the day. A page entered, big door closing loudly behind him as he scuttled up in front of the King's desk, waiting for the King's consent to speak. Thorin gestured it.

"My lord," the young dwarf began. "There has been a minor disagreement between the visitors from the Far East and the guards at the entrance of the Halls of Commerce."

Thorin dropped his quill and looked up at the boy, who squirmed under the direct gaze of his king. "What sort of disagreement?"

"The guards reported their attempted entry to the Great Treasure Hall. No force was required aside from verbal warnings, but I was ordered to report it to you anyways," the boy recited primly.

Thorin stood, turning away from the boy. "Dismissed," he stated curtly, ignoring the page as he scurried out of the room. Thorin stood, moving about the room aimlessly. 

 _And so, their motives are revealed_ , he thought to himself as the page made his exit, leaving him alone in the wide room. 

He gazed at a tapestry hanging on the wall depicting the fall of Erebor. He lost himself in the curl of the woven flames and the dragon's eyes as it curled like a vice around the peak of the mountain. The light was low against the glittering stone of his office. Two fires were burning in their respective hearths, but Thorin felt a creeping coolness in his chest, as though his heart was frosting over.

So far the visitors had done nothing but observe. But they had only been waiting for the right moment to strike. Thorin had tolerated their presence because they had done nothing suspicious. He had not seen before; why else would they be here, after all? These strangers were just like everyone else… the greedy council members- always so jealous of the riches they had not earned. The elves and the men… they were all trying to take Erebor's riches for themselves. That was all any of them ever worked for. They couldn't be trusted; none of them could.

A stick cracked in the hearth and Thorin started, taking a shuddering breath as he was ripped from his reverie. Realizing Orcrist was in his hand but not remembering how it got there, he flung the weapon away. It struck the floor with a sharp clang and he was out the door before the ringing stopped.

Rest. That was all he needed.

 

"Honestly, Thorin, I don't know what you're so worried about," Bilbo complained as the king fretted around the base of the teetering ladder the next morning in the library. "This is nothing compared to climbing up a hundred foot tree infested with man-eating spiders."

Thorin harumphed as he gripped the base of the spindly old thing, which was creaking and groaning under even Bilbo's slight weight. "We were not married then."

"Married?" Bilbo cried indignantly. "What on earth does that have to do with me climbing things?"

"You have a duty to live at least as long as myself now," Thorin argued petulantly. "As I would die without you."

"That's a little overly dramatic, don't you think," Bilbo sighed as he began his descent, arms filled with dusty volumes of dwarven texts.

"No."

Bilbo hummed non-committally as he struggled down the ladder. "I have every right to live as long as I feel like. And if I must live locked in our quarters wrapped in protective packing, then I would prefer to die as soon as possible." 

At that moment, Bilbo's foot missed a rung and he fell the last few feet into his husband's arms. He laughed breathlessly, cooing about his knight in shining armor.

"That was not funny," Thorin growled, carrying a struggling Bilbo to the table, which he set him gently down on, looking him over for injuries.

"Maybe not, but it was a little opportune," Bilbo replied, slapping Thorin's fretting hands away when he tried to check his pulse. "Stop it, you great mother hen, I'm fine! Oh, you're as bad as Dori is with his brothers!"

Thorin backed away from his husband's stinging hands as Bilbo gathered up his books and carried them over to a scribe's desk. "You may have been joking, but I was not," he growled.

Bilbo sobered, thanking the scribe whom he had assigned the volumes to hurriedly before dragging Thorin into the relative privacy of the stacks. The eyes of more than a few scholars turned away from them discreetly as the couple slipped into a dark corner between shelves.

"Thorin," he started softly once he was sure they were alone. "Are you feeling okay?"

Thorin turned to him sharply. "My feelings are not the issue here. If you insist on deliberately placing yourself in danger, then maybe I _should_ confine you to quarters!"

Bilbo, wiping the shell shocked expression from his face, took his husbands wrist and led him back out of the stacks, through the library and out the door without a word. Thorin tried to argue but Bilbo shushed him curtly, never letting up on his pace or his grip on his husband's wrist.

He didn't stop walking until he reached Thorin's office, opening the door and informing the Head Scribe kindly that Thorin was staying home, with him for the remainder of the day and to adjust his schedule accordingly. He ignored the scribe's frantic sputtering as he dragged the King onward, not stopping again until he had entered their quarters, shoved him into an armchair. 

Bilbo fled to the kitchen before Thorin could get a word in edgewise. He returned several minutes later with two cups of tea, one of which he set on the footstool, another which he thrust into Thorin's hands, urging him to drink.

"Sit," Bilbo ordered in a wobbly tone, curling up on the footstool next to the tea, facing away from his husband as he picked at a stray thread of his jacket. "Rest."

Thorin, feeling no less irritated at his husband's flippant disregard for his own safety, opened his mouth to argue with his treatment, only to close it when he caught sight of the look on Bilbo's face, heard his unsteady breaths from where he was perched on the stool.

Thorin set down the tea and gathered Bilbo in his arms, pulling him onto his lap. Bilbo did not resist. He clutched at Thorin's heavy coat, tugging him impossibly closer. Thorin could feel the slight quiver in his shoulders as he pet his golden curls gently.

"My _ghishavel_ ," he murmured into Bilbo's soft curls. "I'm so sorry. I did not mean..."

Bilbo took an audible breath as he untangled himself from his husband enough to give him a watery smile. "I know you didn't," he assured him. "It's just, the way you were acting reminded me so much of… it was like…" He did not go on to speak the words they both knew were coming.

Thorin tucked Bilbo's head underneath his chin. "I will never hurt you, Bilbo. Never again," he told him forcefully, squeezing his eyes shut as he held his husband. But Bilbo did not stop shaking.

 

Thorin came home the next day to find Bilbo curled in his old yellow armchair by the fire, reading a large volume written in what looked to be written in Sindarin. He did not acknowledge his husband's presence, and instead went on reading as if no one was there. He had been very quiet since the… episode a few days ago.

"Bilbo," he asked, pausing in the middle of the room. 

"Hm," Bilbo replied, not turning from his reading.

"Are you not coming to bed?" Thorin asked.

"Oh, I just got to the best part," Bilbo replied in a bland tone. "Be there in a minute."

Thorin stood for a moment before coming to terms with his dismissal, wandering into the bedchamber alone. He went through the motions of undressing, wiping the day off his skin in the wash basin the servants had placed beside the fire in lieu of a bath.

He had scared Bilbo. Again. Would he finally decide it was too much? To live in fear of his own husband for the rest of his days? What if he fled, cast away his marriage vows and ran back to the West where his family was waiting for him with all the comforts of home which Bilbo had missed since he had come here? What if he left Thorin alone in this mountain with no one who knew him, who talked to him as their equal, who Thorin could trust, _really_ trust, to always do what was right?

The bowl of water broke under the pressure of Thorin's hands. He threw the remains into the fire where they cracked and burned, turning to dust in the heat of the flames. He could not loose Bilbo. He would not  _allow_  him to be lost.

 

Thorin was on his way to the King's Hall the next evening for open court when it happened. Had he not been brooding so intensely, he may have heard the light tapping of footsteps behind him. As it was, he did not.

He awoke, bound like an animal, laying atop a glittering hill of golden coins in the Great Treasure Hall. 

His mind was sluggish and there was a wetness dripping down his face, but he was lucid enough to feel it coming over him. 

It was not coincidence he had not been back to this place since they had reclaimed the mountain. He had avoided this Hall for fear of what it would awaken in him that the battle for the mountain had subdued. And he had been right to. His breath was sucked from his lungs as he looked out blearily on the rolling hills of gold. 

There was so much  _more_  of it than he had remembered.

 _No_ , a voice rose from the back of Thorin's mind.  _Why are you here? Why are you tied up like an animal in your own halls?_

He tugged his attention away from the glowing light of the gold, towards the noise which was echoing through the room loudly. It was the sound of metal on metal, and the shouts of battle. The sour scent of blood reached him and he began working his hands free of the knots which bound them together behind his back.

His head throbbed with the effort of tugging, but the Captain of the Guard appeared from over the hill where the noises were coming from and saved him the trouble of freeing himself.

"What's the situation," growled Thorin raggedly as he was freed from the ropes. He tried to push himself onto his feet only to be trapped by a big hand on his shoulder.

"Your Guard has it under control," Dwalin told him, grumbling a curse as he inspected Thorin's head. "It's a nasty wound, that. Must've been one of those strange Eastern maces. Best sit this one out. We can't know what sort of poisons those weapons are coated in."

Thorin push his friend's hand away roughly. "I'm fine," he snapped, pushing himself to his feet again. This time Dwalin did not stop him.

Climbing over the crest of the hill, Thorin took in the battle below. The Easterners had apparently broken into and taken control of the Treasure Hall before the Guard had a chance to rally and reciprocate their attack, for they were fighting from the inside, taking on the forces of Erebor which were streaming from the tall doors which lead to the greater Halls of Commerce. 

The Easterners fought with surprising fervor for a party which was clearly on the losing side. They fought the same way they have walked through the market- like animals, a slink in their steps and their blows biting like snakes. They seemed to blur with the speed of their movement, but maybe that was just Thorin's vision smearing as a wave of dizziness washed over him. He felt Dwalin's steadying hand on his shoulder.

Something about it all niggled at the back of Thorin's mind, but the blow to his head was slowing him down on tracking down the cause of his suspicion. Dwalin was right, there had probably been drugs on the weapon which had injured him. 

 _That's probably also why you can't focus on anything but the gold's call_ , that voice in the back of his mind called to him as he drifted off again.  _So much gold_ , he thought, feeling warm and detached, like he was falling into a deep, calm sea.  _And all of it's mine_. Possessiveness flared in his chest, sending a fire through his body as if from the mouth of a dragon. 

 _No_ , he tugged himself from the thought, trying to focus on the cool air around him, the feel of Dwalin's hands as he held Thorin on his feet when he would have fallen over otherwise.

A call sounded out through the chamber, like a strange bird. The Easterners dropped their weapons, hands out to the sides in what must've been a gesture of surrender.  _Something is wrong_ , Thorin reminded himself, trying to push away to thrall of the gold which clung to him like a many legged monster. Dwalin's hand was still resting on his shoulder, and he was looking at him worriedly, mouth forming words which Thorin could not hear.

A small avalanche of coins tumbled across their feet and they turned to look up at a dwarf, dressed in the Far Easterner's clothing, who was smiling down at them from atop the mountain of riches.  "Greetings, King of Erebor. We have your husband. It's his life, or your gold."

 

"You have no right to this treasure," Thorin shouted up to the Easterner where he was towering over them at the top of the mound. "I will not bargain with invaders."

The Easterner seemed visibly shocked for a moment before replying. "You doubt me, King," he gestured to a few of his fellows. "Bring him out!"

Bilbo, bound much like Thorin had been when he had awoken with the addition of a gag, was dragged out onto the heap and placed at the Easterner's feet. He was uninjured, fortunately, and awake- looking very angry beneath his disheveled curls. They must've snuck up on him at home because he was still dressed in his favorite bathrobe. The thought of those people abducting his consort in his own quarters made Thorin's blood boil.

The Easterner distracted Thorin from his rage by selecting a particularly beautiful piece of the treasure and holding it up to the light. 

It was a diamond blade set in a hit of pure silver, the cross guard a maze of geometry set with the smallest of jewels so it sparked faintly as it twisted in the light. The diamond was sharper and harder than any metal but its hardness made it brittle. If it were to be met with sufficient resistance, the blade would shatter. Not a very practical weapon, but beautiful to look at.

"Is the life of your husband really worth a heap or two of your precious treasure, King?" he called down tauntingly. "Does this pretty dagger equal your pretty husband in your eyes?" He held the blade up beside Bilbo for comparison. Then he mumbled, almost to himself, "So the tales of a mad king are true."

"Let's all just calm down," Balin cut in. Thorin tried to remember when Balin had arrived. "We need to agree on the specific items, and calculate the value of the items you're asking for. Now, what sort of…" He went on, joined by nearby members of the king's advising staff who had spirited onto the scene, trying to draw as much conversation out of these strangers as they could to give the guard time to regroup. 

With some delicacy and luck, the outsiders didn't stand a chance against the forces of Erebor. In fact, they were insane to have even tried this approach. They were now trapped deep within the kingdom with no escape route and dwindled forces, trying to bargain for their goals with the most cunning dwarfs in Erebor. Within minutes they would be marched off to the deepest prisons, where they could live out the rest of their miserable lives in the dark, cold stone.

Thorin tried to focus on the words passing over his head and the taunts of the stranger echoing down from on top of the heap. But he couldn't help but notice the glittering blade twirling to and fro in the Easterners grip over the image of his husband, and his thoughts collided like tectonic plates.  _Mine_ , the word resounded through his mind, breaking over the edges like a great wave over the cliffside. _Bilbo, mine, my treasure, my riches, all mine, all mine._ A great molten anger burst in his chest, silencing all thought as he moved towards the invader who mocked him so surely. 

He watched all that followed as if from a distance.

He felt the coins tumbling beneath his fingers as he leapt up the mount to his challenger. He saw his hands taking the dagger from the Easterner, and the invader's back before him, a wide open target. 

The blade broke, shattered into a shower of glittering fragments, blood turning the diamonds to rubies. The hilt of the dagger hit the the Easterner's back with a hollow thump, dropping from his hand as the dwarf fell to the ground beneath his feet. 

Bilbo's face- wide, slate grey eyes filled with terror. 

His hands, wide open as he looked down them to see his fingers stained red with blood. 

He heard the avalanche of coins as the lifeless body slid down the mound of treasure, coming to rest with a thump at the foot of a monolithic statue of a King Thror. 

There was a ringing silence in the hall, broken only by the clink of the coins as they slid down, settling into new order.

A quiet chant began among the invaders, breaking the silence. The chant grew slowly from a whisper to a cry and they broke the surrender, striking out against the forces of Erebor with a new fervor. 

And Thorin ran.

 

Dwalin walked Bilbo to his quarters, the silence heavy between them. The burly warrior hovered closely over Bilbo, clearly worried as the Hobbit walked numbly down the hall. 

Bilbo's body automatically took the right turns to lead him down the familiar path to his quarters, but he he did not feel the stone under his feet or hear the footsteps of the people rushing by in the busy hallway. 

His mind was slow to catching up on what had happened in the Great Treasure Hall. He was no dwarf, but even he understood the firm laws of honor to which their warriors were bound. To do battle with an enemy who was weaker than oneself was seen as dishonorable in the extreme. For a king to stab an unarmed dwarf who was clearly no trained warrior in the back for his whole kingdom to see...

Bilbo tried to breathe as he felt a wave of panic wash through him. He felt lost suddenly, like the ground had dropped out from under his feet. He didn't know which way to turn, everything he had held true was gone suddenly, leaving behind only a gaping black abyss. 

His footsteps faltered and Dwalin caught his arm, half carrying him the rest of the way to his rooms and placing him in the closest chair. Some of the chatter of the hall slipped through to Bilbo's ears… _'did you hear about the king', 'succumbed at last, I always knew it would end like this'._ Dwalin shut the door firmly, plunging them into silence. 

He made no offer of comfort, but he did stay- hovering over Bilbo like the mother hen he was at heart. His fretting was almost enough to make Bilbo smile. He took deep breaths and looked around the quarters which had been his home for many years now. They were as much in his heart as Bag End now, with their high, arched ceilings and the glittering green stone. All around there were little bits of evidence that a Hobbit had lived in these dwarven chambers. His mother's doilies decorated the stark black stone of the kitchen table. On top of Bilbo's old armchair lay a pillow which Thorin had attempted to embroider as a gift for Bilbo on their wedding day… Having been informed it was a traditional gift to give one's spouse on such an occasion in the Shire, Thorin had endeavored to show his respect for Bilbo's heritage with the gift. It was one of Bilbo's favorite possessions. Thorin's deep, abiding love was apparent in every crooked stitch.

As he stared at the pillow, it dawned on him. He knew Thorin. Thorin was the dwarf who had spent the last ten years comforting Bilbo after every nightmare, kissing each scar on his body whenever he saw them. He had taken every opportunity to make up for his regrets every moment of every day. 

Bilbo stood up and crossed the room, ignoring the way Dwalin's eyes followed him warily, and picked up the pillow, running a hand over the lopsided acorn adorning its surface. He thumbed the red spots spattering the baby blue fabric, remembering Thorin joking that he had received fewer puncture wounds in battle than he had sewing this pillow.

_"How any of your people maintain such soft hands while mastering this clearly grueling craft is beyond me," Thorin had growled._

_"Silly dwarf," Bilbo laughed, kissing each of Thorin's bandaged fingers. "Haven't you ever heard of a thimble?"_

_"A what?"_

_And Bilbo had laughed._

He sniffled as he buried his face in the pillow. 

The dwarf who had done all those things would never have killed anyone unless it was necessary to do so, and he would've done it with honor. It was the gold-sickness. Thorin had avoided that wretched Treasure Hall ever since the battle for a reason. And after all these years of living in fear of what he might become again if he ventured there, he had been taken there by force, and then injured on top of it all. And he had been so stressed recently- hardly getting any sleep, despite Bilbo's advice. He had already been feeling poorly before this whole mess with the Easterners. They had been just enough to push him over the edge. 

But just because Thorin had made a mistake didn't mean that they should give up on him. In fact, he needed their help now more than ever.

"Dwalin," Bilbo said, and the big dwarf turned curiously at the determination in the Hobbit's tone. "We have to find him."

 

"You can't go, laddie," Balin told Bilbo, leaning heavily on the back of a chair. "The effects that Thorin's… actions had on the kingdom can't be easily undone. A king fleeing his own halls like- like a criminal…" Balin sighed deeply, shaking his head. "It will be some time before the trust in the crown can be recovered. My point is: the kingdom needs its consort during these troubled times."

When Bilbo had summoned the old company to the council chambers, this was not the reaction he had expected. They had trickled in one by one, avoiding his gaze as they settled into their seats around the large, square table like children who knew they were about to be scolded. Where was the company of twelve who faced down a dragon at Thorin's call?

"No," Bilbo replied sharply. "The kingdom needs its king, and its king needs our help! We must find him!" 

"We are with you Bilbo," Fili said, Kili nodding beside him. Balin looked ready to argue, but he was cut off instead.

"Doesn't seem like he wants our help this time," Bombur mumbled, picking flour out from under his nails.

"Maybe it's best if we leave him be, Bilbo," Bofur agreed, a defeated look in his usually jovial eyes. "After all, it's different now…"

Bilbo stared at Bofur, unable to believe what he was hearing. "I can't believe you," Bilbo cried. "Any of you! You claim to be his friends, and yet you are unwilling to help him in his darkest moment! If this is the famous loyalty of the dwarves, then I must say I'm disappointed."

"You've got to understand, Bilbo," Gloin pleaded. "By dwarven standards, Thorin has just committed a most heinous crime. The murder of another dwarf, no matter how treacherous… it's unheard of."

"He's not the same dwarf we followed on the Quest," Nori agreed.

"So," Bilbo daringly addressed the elephant in the room. "Why weren't you this willing to abandon Thorin when he threatened to kill me?"

There was an uncomfortable shuffling as the company squirmed in their chairs.

"He didn't," Fili insisted. "We would've never let him." Many of the others started nodding, not quite willing to meet Bilbo's eye.

There was a long silence as Bilbo absorbed this, and the rest of the company kept their faces down, one or two of them sniffling suspiciously.

"Dwarves!" Bilbo spat, shoving himself up from his chair and pacing back and forth at the head of the table. "So stubbornly set in your ideas of right and wrong and honor and glory that you couldn't find your way to real forgiveness even if it fell right over your thick heads! Even for one of your closest friends, your family…. 

"You are afraid!" He shouted, pointing at Gloin, who had looked ready to jump up and defend his honor. "Yes, you are. And the worst part of it is, you aren't afraid for Thorin. You're afraid for yourselves. You don't want to help him because you don't want to see his suffering, you don't want to look at him when he's in pain because it pains you! 

"Are you not dwarves? Love like yours is unparalleled in any other race, it's as unmovable as the mountains! Trust me I know...Thorin needs you now. Are you going to let him down? Are you going to abandon him in his darkest moment? What did Thorin do, when all hope seemed lost to your people all those years ago? What would he do for you if you were the ones who were hurt?"

Silence fell in the chambers as the words settled amongst the company. 

The scrape of a chair against the concrete broke the silence as Dwalin rose. "I'm with you," he said, looking out at the company in a clear challenge.

"Aye," Balin added, coming to stand beside his brother.

"And me," Ori cried, and his brothers followed. 

"Aye," the rest of the company agreed, all rising. 

Gloin and Oin were glaring at Bilbo contritely, as if they remained outraged at the suggestion that they they were anything less than the bravest of dwarves. 

Fili and Kili looked at Bilbo expectantly. "What's the plan?" Kili asked.

Thorin woke with a monstrous headache. He lay on the hard, rocky ground, staring up at the slate grey sky and waited for the world to stop spinning. It never did. 

He had killed an unarmed, unprepared dwarf. One of his own kind. 

He had been no twisted, bloodthirsty orc, or great ugly troll looking to feed on the flesh of the free races. He had been a dwarf, like himself, with a life, a plan, a family somewhere. He may not have been innocent, but he had not deserved such an end- no trial, no chance of repentance. What made Thorin any different from an orc, now? What made him different than Azog?

He sat among the twisted roots of some tall tree on the edge of the forest near the Long Lake. His distance from the mountain caught him by surprise. He had run further than he thought.

He dragged himself to the lake's edge, looking down at his reflection in the rippling yellow surface. The dragon still lay there, under the water. Having been unable and unwilling to move the body, the people of the valley had left Smaug where he had fallen to foul the water in more ways than one. 

Thorin looked at himself. His hair had long since greyed, and it seemed like his face held more wrinkles than the last time he had looked. The raven crown still rested on his forehead. He looked just like his grandfather.

For ten years he had sat in the kingdom his grandfather made, on his grandfather's throne, wearing his grandfather's crown. In the end nothing had changed, he had always been his grandfather.

After expelling what little there was in his stomach into the already fouled lake, the world started to look a little less unsteady, but he felt no better for it. He had been deceiving himself all these years. He had never been better, the sickness had only lay dormant inside him until the right circumstances arose where he had been pushed over the precipice he hadn't known he had been walking on the edge of. He could never be cured- he could never regain the honor of his forefathers. There was no hope for him, now or ever.

When his vision cleared of the tears he hadn't known were falling, he pulled a dagger out of his belt. Glaring down at his reflection, he leveled the knife at the base of his chin, and dragged it forward roughly, shaving the braid of his beard away. He watched the braid sink in the water. Rising despondently, he wandered towards the lights of Dale feeling shameful, lost, and alone- like he was Thorin Oakenshield once more.

 

Bilbo turned to his company- all mounted on the backs of their ponies, packed with supplies enough for a week long journey. "Ready?" he asked, and they all nodded. And so they rode out the gates of the mountain as fast as their ponies could carry them, Bilbo at their head, only hoping that they weren't too late.


	3. Chapter 3

It was nightfall in the city of Dale. The marketplace was still filled with busy shoppers, looking to cut a bargain before the shops closed.

A dark figure wearing a hood moved amongst them, making its way through the shadows on the fringes of the crowd. The figure seemed to be headed directly across the market to the more secluded corners of the city, but it never got there.

"Is that King Thorin?" a voice rang out from the crowd.

"King Thorin?" another echoed.

"Where is he?" What seemed like a hundred heads turned towards the hastily retreating figure, just as he slipped through the door of a nearby shop. They went after him.

"King Thorinnn," called an older man as ran after the figure. He had heard some gossip from the nearby dwarven kingdom and wanted to validate it.  He threw open the door- the bell over the door rattled on its hinge as he stood in the doorway, scanning the room.  "I know you’re in here," he called out. “You can’t hide.”

He spotted the figure retreating into the back room. "There!" But it was too late. By the time the curious pursuers had tumbled through the protesting shopkeeper's store into the back room, the figure was already gone.

  
Bilbo and his company followed Thorin's meandering trail from the gates of Erebor out into the valley below, down into the forest, past the rocky outcrops, and to the edge of the Long Lake. By then it was nightfall, and they were forced to stop and make camp.

It was eerie, the familiarity of it. They fell into their old habits without a word. Bofur gathered wood while Gloin fished out his flint. Dwalin settled down on a nearby log to sharpen his axes, and Nori snuck off to do who knows what. But they were too worried to reminisce. They settled down for their dinner of cram, collectively grimacing as the taste brought back dark memories. The only thing missing was Thorin.

Usually, Bilbo was the one to cheer everyone up in times like these. That was what he was best at: unearthing the hope in situations when others could not find it themselves. He and Thorin made quite the team- one to drive a group to action, another to see a reason for acting.

But instead, Bilbo was perched a little ways away from the fire, sitting on a rock with his back to the company, staring off into the night. Several worried looks were cast his way as they settled down. Balin was the one to break the silence.

"You worry too much," he opened.

Bilbo shot him a sour look. "I'd say my worry is well warranted. My husband is wandering the wild injured and alone- probably working himself into a fit with guilt over something that isn't even his fault! I couldn’t be worried enough!"

Balin heaved a sigh, coming over to sit beside Bilbo. "Never underestimate a dwarf." Bilbo gave a derisive snort, grumbling about how he had heard those words before. Balin dutifully ignored him. "Especially not our king. We'll find him, Bilbo. That I can promise."

Bilbo slumped down into his seat, laying his head in his hands as Balin patted him consolingly on the back.

"Aye, don't worry yourselves," Dwalin put in. He reached over to give Kili- who had been staring broodingly into the fire- a good pat. "Thorin knows how to handle himself. We'll find him before he manages to do any real damage."

Bilbo hissed in exasperation as chuckling broke out among the company. "Dwarves," he muttered. "Senses of humor that are dry as dust but still can’t manage even a shred of sensibility."

"Oh, so that's how you feel about us, Bilbo? After all these years," Dori cried, laying a hand over his heart as though he were in great pain. "I'm injured."

Bilbo looked around the fire at his concerned friends and realized he was being selfish. He wasn't the only one worried about Thorin, and sitting here brooding about it would make no difference. Hadn't he been the one to scold Thorin for acting the exact same way?

They would find him, but not tonight. All they could do right now was get a good night's rest before they began again in the morning.

Joining the rest of the company by the fire , he laid out his bedroll and settled down- only to be met with the familiar feeling of a root digging into his back. He wiggled around unhappily, trying to find a more comfortable position in vain. He suddenly remembered why he had always refused to join Thorin on all his multi-day scouting trips around the mountain. He was getting too old for this.

Doing his best to ignore the root- he stared up at the open sky above. Bilbo hoped that his dunderheaded dwarf was remembering that he needed to sleep too. Maybe he was even staring up at the same stars.

  
  
Thorin stood at the edge of Mirkwood, glaring into the forest which stretched up like a wall before him.

He had found no refuge in Dale, so he had traveled on, walking for what seemed like hours until he had arrived here.

The trees seemed to mock him- this is the only way, they whispered. It's only forward or backwards down the same path no matter which way you choose. Thorin disagreed, and told the trees so by wading into the thick undergrowth just to the left of the path.

The wind rustled through the leaves and it sounded like laughter to Thorin's ears. You can't escape your destiny, Thorin, son of Thrain. Thorin swatted at the air around his ears, pushing away their comments as he stumbled onwards.

Time seemed to melt together. Thorin was no longer sure of the hour, or even the day. His body felt stiff and heavy, and his clammy skin chafed against his clothing as he walked.

  
Yet he walked on, his pace slow but steady as he hacked and shoved his way through the undergrowth aimlessly. Something wet dripped down his back beneath his tunic and he shivered. He looked towards the sky to see what had fallen. Seeing nothing, he realized it must have been a drop of sweat. Strange, because he felt quite cold.

The flash of bright fur in caught his eye through the trees. It was that wretched white deer.

The sight of it made Thorin's blood boil, though he didn’t quite remember why. But he did not need a reason. He unsheathed his dagger slowly so as not to scare it off, and threw. The dagger hit home. He watched as the deer fell into the underbrush and out of his sight. He made his way over to where the beast had fallen, curious what the beast was and why it had been following him.

Fighting his way through the brush, he heard a strange noise coming from the clearing ahead. Perhaps the beast wasn't quite dead? But no, it didn't sound like a deer… what Thorin heard was something different. It was the sound of a person weeping.

He cautiously approached the clearing, but when he arrived he found no deer. Instead, it was Kili.

He was crying, clutching the limp body of a dwarf whose face was hidden from Thorin. “Kili,” he questioned, reaching towards his nephew’s shoulder.

Kili gasped as though he’d been shocked, scrambling away from Thorin’s touch and trying to drag the body with him. “Stay away from us,” Kili scream, tears running down his face. Thorin it was Fili he was clinging to, who lay face up with Thorin’s knife protruding from his chest. His eyes were still open, an expression of shock frozen on his face. “Stay away,” Kili shouted again, looking up at Thorin with an expression of pure fear. Thorin stumbled back, his foot catching on a tree root. When he looked up, both of his nephews were gone.

He stumbled away as quickly as his feet would carry him through the trees. But the trees became figures lining the path on either side of him no matter which way he ran. They were his people- looking afraid, lost, and broken in their poverty. They looked up at him, and he knew his suffering is his doing.

A bramble patch blocked his way ahead. He kept going, knowing he could jump it but failing, falling face first into the dirt on the other side.

He heaved himself up off the ground again, seeing something red and thick dripping through his trailing hair. I’m bleeding, he realized distantly. He couldn’t remember when he’d been hurt.

But that was why he was here, wasn’t it? Because he was in a battle, and he had lost something. Something far more precious than a little spilt blood…

“Thorin,” he heard, and he almost didn’t have the energy to look up and see who was calling.

“Thorin,” the voice called again, this time closer.

“Bilbo?” Thorin whispered, feeling something constrict in his chest. Bilbo shouldn’t be here, he shouldn’t see him like this. But why was that again? He didn’t really care. Nothing was left in him but the elation of hearing his husband’s voice calling for him. “Bilbo,” he cried again, hearing his cracking voice echo through the forest. He heaved himself off the ground and stumbled towards the sound.

The first sign of something amiss was the feeling of solid stone beneath his feet. The ground formed an even inclined downwards, leading him underground. Even so, he followed the sound of Bilbo’s voice calling his name into the cave, listening to his cries getting louder as he approached the light glowing at the end of the tunnel. He found himself in Erebor, standing on the wide walkway facing the throne.

First he noticed that someone was sitting on the throne, but he was too far away still to see who it was. He wondered who it was that would make such a presumption. He spotted Bilbo, chained to the floor beside the seat, forced to lounge on the pillows which had been piled there, like a slave.

Thorin’s blood rose to his head at the sight. Who was this vile impostor who soiled the throne of Erebor with their sickening lack of virtue? Did they not know they stood in halls which belonged to the noble line of Durin? If they had, they would have surely tucked tail and run away in fear of the very stone on which they were perched so grandly.

But as Thorin crossed the chamber to challenge this usurper he was met with an unexpected adversary: himself. He was reclined on the throne, idly stroking Bilbo’s hair like one might an animal as he watched the real Thorin approach.

Bilbo was crying, with tears running down his ruddy cheeks as he stared up at the Thorin on the throne, repeating his name over and over in a pleading voice which broke the real Thorin’s heart to hear. This couldn’t be real. Bilbo would never sound so defeated; not the Bilbo he knew.

The Thorin on the throne sat in silence for a moment, a filthy sneer working its way across his dark features. His skin was pale and he glowed slightly, as if a fire burned inside him, making his golden armor glitter unnaturally. He stood, reaching towards Bilbo to free him from his chains.

Bilbo’s begging increased in pitch, edged with panic as the dark Thorin lifted him by the collar of his torn shirt with one hand easily. In a few short steps, he thrust Bilbo out over the precipice, and Thorin gasped in terror from where he stood below on the walkway before the throne. He tried to run towards them- to save his husband from himself- but his movements seemed to be weighed down with the weight of an ocean of water.

“You miserable Hobbit,” the dark Thorin hissed at Bilbo, whose weeping had ceased, leaving behind only a dull sort of resignation in its place. “You undersized Burglar.”

Thorin’s throat closed and tears welled up in his eyes, blurring his vision; for even in all his efforts, he could not forget the words he had spoken that day to Bilbo all those years ago. He tried to call Bilbo’s name, to let him know that this dark king was not his Thorin. To tell him that he was sorry- but it was too late. The dark Thorin released his hold on Bilbo even as Thorin reached out, his hands closing on empty air as Bilbo fell into the endless cavern below.

The weight slowing his movements was gone suddenly and he was sent flying over the edge of the walkway by his own restrained force. He caught the edge with one hand, barely keeping his grip as he scrambled on the slick stone. His feet swung over the edge, scrambling for purchase.

Dark Thorin looked down at him, hatred burning in his expression. He laid his foot none-too-gently over Thorin’s grasping fingers. “Thorin Oakenshield,” he spat, his voice making the words a curse. “You are weak. You will never save your people- just like you couldn’t save your husband. You never could: for you yourself are a curse upon them, like your grandfather before you.”

The pressure of his boot over Thorin’s fingers became crushing hard as he bore down. Thorin cried out as he slipped from the precipice, falling into the hole so dark and deep it could’ve held Durin’s Bane.

  
He woke in Erebor.

There was a thudding pain in his head and the sound of voices around him that echoed as though they were coming from a distance. He sucked in a sharp breath and he struggled to sit up. The voices around him quieted, and he felt himself pushed backwards by gentle hands.

“It’s okay, Thorin,” a voice told him. They spoke quietly, but that did not stop the noise from making his temples throb. “You’re safe now.”

“Where am I,” Thorin slurred.

There was an unsettled silence.

“Don’t worry, lad,” another voice comforted. “He’ll be a bit disoriented for a while. No cause to worry. The poison’s still in his system, and he hasn’t had the easiest few days.”

“You’re in Erebor, Thorin,” the voice said, as a hand stroked through his hair, which was damp with sweat.

Erebor… he couldn’t be- this was just another hallucination. Because if he was in Erebor, that meant his kingdom was at risk and everyone he knew would witness his shame.

He tried to throw off his sheets, to escape again. But he could only thrash wildly in the blankets. They tangled around his limbs and trapped him there, lying on his back and staring up at the stone swirling unsteadily above him.

The next thing he knew a cup was tilted against his lips. Hands forced his jaw open so he could not resist as burning liquid was poured in. Then, he passed out again.

  
Bilbo would not leave his bedside. To their credit, the company spent nearly all of the time they weren’t attending to their work or families in the king’s sick room as well. But Bilbo refused to leave altogether, despite their urging to not forget to take care of himself too. Even Oin made a point of explaining to Bilbo why it was better if Thorin slept off his injuries. But Bilbo stayed there for days- sleeping on his little stool, taking meals on Thorin’s bedside table.

When Bilbo fell asleep mid-conversation with Dori, all those present agreed that it would be best to transport him to his own bed despite of how upset he would be that they had taken such liberties when he woke. He wasn’t doing anyone any good half-asleep as he had been for the whole evening.

So Dori plucked him easily from his stool, cradling Bilbo in his arms as Ori and Balin held open the doors for him all the way down the corridor to his chambers. Dori laid him on the large bed and Ori went to fetch some furs to use as covers.

The company stood around the bed for a moment, watching over the Hobbit who was curled on the cover sheet, still sleeping soundly.

No one spoke, but they were all thinking just about the same things: They would never again doubt the capacity of other races to love as fully as any dwarf could. Perhaps next they should trick Bilbo into taking his meals in the dining halls with the rest of the company. And finally, what would happen if Thorin never recovered? Of course he was going to wake up- but what would happen to Erebor if he never was the king they had known again?

  
When Thorin woke again, he was better. And also, worse.

“Bilbo,” he rasped, his voice like sandpaper in his throat. He tried to open his eyes, but the light was too bright to stand.

“Go wake the Consort,” an unfamiliar voice ordered in a hushed tone. “Tell him the king has awoken.”

Thorin laid still, trying just to breath as he waited.

The memories of what had happened the past few days rolled over him like waves, threatening to drown him. What had happened to Erebor in his absence? What had become of the Easterners? How would his people look him in the eye knowing what he had done? How could he stand to look at himself?

“Thorin!” Bilbo sobbed as he scrambled noisily into the room “You’re awake!”

“Bilbo, my love, my- ouch!”

“That’s what you get so scaring me, so, you great oaf! Do you have any idea-”

“Shhh!” one of the healers commanded.

“Did you just shush me?” Bilbo cried, and Thorin could hear his deadly glare.

“Bilbo,” Thorin repeated softly, tender even as he was rubbing the sore spot on his arm where Bilbo had pinched him. “I have hurt you. I’m am so sorry.”

Thorin felt fingers intertwining with his own and he chanced opening his eyes to look at his husband- his real husband.

Bilbo was standing above his bed, the dim light from the lamps breaking over his bronze curls like the sun breaks over the horizon, making a halo of light around his head. His face was red and splotchy with tears, and he looked as though he had just woken. There were grey bags under his eyes and he seemed skinnier than he should be. Thorin had never seen anything more beautiful.

“My ghishavel,” Thorin whispered, tugging Bilbo down roughly into his arms as he burst into tears. All of the onlookers suddenly had other placed to be when they heard the sound of their king’s broken sobs.

Thorin clung to his tiny husband as though he were a boon on the sea. Bilbo muttered reassurances through his own tears, touching every available inch of Thorin’s body with soothing hands.

“Don’t you ever leave me again,” Bilbo ordered thickly.

“Never,” Thorin breathed.

  
They sat there together for who knows how long. No one came to disturb them, so they were content to rest in silence, simply being in each other’s company after so many days of wonder and worry.

Finally, Thorin took a deep breath, wiping the dried tears from his cheeks and taking a deep breath. “What has happened in my absence?”

Bilbo shot him a wry smile. “Leave it to you to ruin any moment with matters of state,” he muttered. Then, more loudly he told him, “Fili is ruling in your stead while you recover. He had been doing a fine job- all the preparations you’ve been putting him through since we reclaimed the mountain have finally paid off. Kili has been very bored, though. Balin is overseeing him them both.”

“But what of the Easterners,” Thorin demanded.

“Shhh,” Bilbo said. “No need to worry about that now. Fili and Balin have everything handled. All you need to do is stay here and rest.”

Thorin frowned but Bilbo would not budge.

  
No matter what Bilbo said, Erebor wasn’t faring well in the absence of its king. Every day which Fili spent in the throne room more gossip flourished among the people. They had many questions and few answers. This led to much speculation, some of it truly wild. They most insidious of these rumors was that the Easterners had taken over the kingdom in secret. They had replaced King Thorin with a look alike and staged the murder in the treasure hall all to gain power.

This was, of course, absurd. The Easterners had been overtaken easily. Even after their second rally, they had had no chance against the forces of Erebor. Their high ranking officials had been thrown in the deepest, darkest dungeons available and the foot soldiers had scattered across the countryside, leaderless.

Even so, the people gossiped. The word of a kingdom in peril spread to Dale soon enough, and then to Mirkwood. Just yesterday they had received a letter from Dain, addressed to Fili, inquiring if they were in need of additional forces.

The whole world was waiting with baited breath to see what would become of the richest kingdom in Middle-Earth. Would their king rise again or would Erebor fall to ruin under the weight of their doubt?

  
Meanwhile, as the day passed, Thorin took a turn for the worse.

“I don’t get it,” Oin whispered to Balin (although Oin’s whisper was more like someone else’s normal speaking voice). They were standing close together just outside the doorway of the king’s sick room. “His wounds are healing perfectly, yet something ails him. He looks paler every day, he’s irritable- more so than normal, I mean.”

“Could it be some sort of infection,” Balin inquired, but Oin was already shaking his head.

“Not any that I’ve ever heard of, I’ve checked everything.”

Of course they both knew what it could be, but neither said anything as Balin thanked Oin, moving through the door to where Thorin was laying.

“Bilbo,” Balin said, addressing the consort where he was sitting at Thorin’s bedside. “I think perhaps our king would benefit from a day in the garden.”

“Did Oin say that,” Bilbo inquired suspiciously.

“No, that is the advice of a much wiser dwarf than any healer.”

One of the nearby healers turned to give Balin a baleful look.

“And be assaulted by those tiny beasts which crawl out of the ground simply to annoy me?” Thorin growled, all at once remembering how much he hated ants.

“You know,” Bilbo mused. “I think I once described dwarves that very same way...”

Balin laughed, but Thorin only grumbled as Bilbo moved to help him out of bed. He swatted away his husbands hands, shoving the covers off roughly and levering himself onto his feet. Balin and Bilbo could only look on as he struggled.

Thorin glared at their concerned faces. “Let’s go! If we must visit the garden I would prefer to get it over with as soon as possible,” he ordered, making a valiant effort to sweep past them majestically considering he was still swaying slightly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm SO SORRY for the delay. When I started writing this, I was not expecting the reception it got and I did not have any sort of plan. Then I had some health problems, then my junior thesis started so even though I was writing it still took FOREVER. I'M A HORRIBLE ADMIN. But now I have a plan! I can't promise quick updates, but I will be updating. 
> 
> p.s. You may have noticed this fic used to have 6 chapters, and now it has three. I have not deleted any content. What I have done is consolidated the chapters so that they were longer and more consistent. Everything I wrote before is still there, though.

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta-ed. Feel free to point out any and all errors or unclarity.


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